kairos
by ColieMacKenzie
Summary: kairos (ancient Greek) - (n) the perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the opportune atmosphere for action, words, or movement; the time of possibility.
1. Chapter 1

This marks my 100th story! :) This feels quite momentous to me - I don't think I ever envisioned I'd reach this number - and so I'd like to take this moment to thank all of you! Friends old and new. Flailers and cheerers and silent readers. Critics, encouragers and supporters. I wouldn't have gotten this far without all of you; certainly wouldn't have had nearly as much fun! And every review, kind message and note, every emotion or experience you share in response brings me such joy! With gratitude for these amazing, encouraging and humbling experiences – _THANK YOU!_

Dedicated to my wife. Whom I met because of this wondrous world called fanfic. Without whom I wouldn't be all that I am. Who is my most staunch supporter, my hand-holder, my cheer-me-upper when I need it most. Who doesn't realize how wonderful, how truly spectacular she is. _T - You are my whole heart._

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**kairos**

A season four story, set vaguely after 4x09, "Killshot."

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_**kairos**  
(ancient Greek)_

_(n) the perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the opportune atmosphere for action, words, or movement; __the time of possibility._

_also, a word for weather._

_._

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The first time it happens, he barely dares to move. Has to remind himself to breathe, in and out, in and out.

For just a moment he wonders if this is a dream but he dismisses the notion immediately. He _knows_. The touch of her fingertips is too real. Cold as they scatter over his skin, tentative in the way they skate past the curve of his ribcage and then settle on his waist. The fleeting press of her knees into the back of his, and the lithe lines of her draped alongside his body, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, yet, not close enough to touch.

He lies on his side, stares unseeing into the darkness of his bedroom, doesn't dare to move lest he scare her away. He wants to keep it, can't quite grasp that it's real; this fantasy, this apparition in the dark of the night; this hushed, dreamlike moment where she is curled into his bed, her slender body barely making any indentations in his mattress.

He wants to keep her.

_Kate_.

It is the middle of the night, the wintry cold howling outside the window and somehow, she has come to his home and crawled into his bed.

He pretends to sleep, to not wake up while she settles beneath his comforter and sheets, his body tensed and all his senses focused on her. He's keenly aware of each breath she takes, every slide of her limbs and subtle twitch of her fingers. The scrape of her toes along his calves is ice-cold against his skin, such a stark contrast to the heat coming off her body, now trapped underneath the blanket. His throat clogs with a tangle of emotions when the breaths she sucks into her lungs sound too suspiciously like sobs.

He doesn't know how she'd come in - had his mother let her inside somewhere around two-thirty in the morning or did she utilize her superior lock picking skills? Doesn't know why either, but he doesn't care one bit.

Tendrils of her scent cocoon him, bridging the wide, obscure chasm of longing that gapes between them. The feather-light weight of her palm over his waist their only point of contact, the only touch she seems to allow herself. So close and yet, so apart.

So lonely.

He breaches the divide. He can't _not_ reel her in, tug her closer, the need to feel her against him a stark, unbearable thing that makes his heart clatter in his chest. Ever so slowly, as if he's approaching a skittish animal, he moves his arm, holding his breath while his palm settles on top of her hand, his fingers finding a home within the gaps of hers.

The silence seems to pulsate between them; her body feels taut, frozen in place but her fingers tremor at his waist. He tugs at her hand, her arm, pulls her close until her body is spooned along the length of his back, fitting around the curve of his rear and the slant of his thighs, like puzzle pieces made to click together, her curves and angles filling all his empty, yearning spaces.

He presses her palm to his chest where his heart beats just for her, and her fingers curl over his collarbone, once, twice; evanescent scrapes of her nails that make his skin tingle. She wiggles her hips, fitting herself more firmly against him, getting comfortable. Heat unfurls in his midsection, races through his veins and he has to bite back a groan, vigorously squashes it down. Her icy toes poke his calves. He lifts his leg, creates a small gap of space for her to slide her feet between his shins, and then he folds the warmth of his limbs closed around her.

And then her whole body seems to just melt, relaxing against him as if a heavy weight has been lifted from her, her lips just barely brushing his spine as she sighs tonelessly.

He tries to keep his eyes open, doesn't want to fall asleep, doesn't want to miss a single moment of Kate Beckett in his bed, draped warm and so, so soft against him. But her breathing evens out; her warmth and the familiar lure of her scent, the steady rise and fall of her chest lull him into a sense of comfort, of _rightness_ he hasn't felt in a long while.

The next thing he knows, he's coming awake to the early morning grey that tickles his eyelids and she is gone, has left only the faint imprint of her head on the pillow.

He rolls over, buries his face where her scent lingers in his linens. He draws in a deep breath, soaking in the ephemeral reminder of her presence. His stomach churns with the way he aches for her, cold and forlorn.

From that day on, he leaves his loft unlocked.

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_Tumblr: nic6879 dot tumblr dot com_

_Twitter: at nic6879_


	2. Chapter 2

_For the lovely woman sitting right here, next to me on this couch... :)_

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_**kairos**_

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"Pretty stupid, leaving your door open like this," she murmurs as she settles in behind him, her forehead pressed to the wide space between his shoulder blades, her warm breath seeping through his shirt, caressing his skin. Bolder this time, a little braver, the way she automatically spoons the length of her body against his back, one arm draped around his middle with her hand pressed to his sternum. Her fingers are cold but her skin is warm, the heat radiating through her sleep shirt and the leggings that encase her legs. How does a person as willowy as she give off so much warmth; doesn't she need it herself?

It's been days and he'd started wondering whether he'd dreamt it after all. They hadn't talked about it. Of course not. They don't talk. By day she is Kate Beckett, focused and indomitable, but he sees the cracks in her foundation now, the thin fissures that are grooved into the lines of her body. The weight on her shoulders that makes her wilt, sink in on herself when she believes nobody can see. But he sees. He sees her, all of her. The way she battles, fights, rises again and again, seemingly stronger than before and he's so proud of her, completely enamored. And worried.

Every once in a while he'd catch her looking at him, when she thought he didn't notice, a wistful expression etched onto her face, the meaning of which he couldn't quite figure out, and he knew it wasn't a dream.

He doesn't know why she comes, doesn't know what she needs but he doesn't care; it doesn't matter, as long as she's here, as long as she seeks him.

It's late.

He'd been asleep already but his ears had immediately tuned into the soft snick of his front door as it fell closed, his eyes flying open. He'd rolled onto his side, left enough space for her on the other side of his bed, his heart throbbing in his throat while he waited for her. Pinched his eyes closed and pretended to sleep when her quiet steps came inside his bedroom, padded closer, rounded the bed. Listened to the rustle of fabric as she slipped off her coat and scarf, letting everything drop to the floor, as she toed off her socks, as she lifted the corner of the sheet and slid underneath, curling around him.

_I was waiting for you._

The answer coats his tongue but he swallows it down; too much truth, too much desperate want.

Besides, he's fairly certain she knows anyway. She's here.

"Safe building." There's a doorman, after all, and security throughout, and he doesn't have that many obnoxious fans, and his daughter… Okay, yeah, it was stupid.

She makes him stupid. Stupidly in love with her.

"I'm so tired, Castle. Just so tired." Her words are quiet, more whisper than voice, and the sadness, the quiet desperation that resonates through them tears him from his thoughts, rips right into him. He doesn't know whether she's just exhausted, or tired of this distance, or tired of fighting, doesn't know what to offer when all he wants is to carry her burden for her. To be her strength, hold her up when she needs holding, share every pain and sorrow, bring her joy, ensure that her life is safe and delightful and fun.

And it hurts, in ways nothing has ever hurt before, to stand back, to hold back, to not give her everything she deserves and then some because she's the most extraordinary person he's ever met.

But at least he can give her this.

He turns on his back, keeping her hand tightly clasped within his to fold her into his chest. She comes easier than he would've expected, simply settles on top of him, her cheek to his sternum and one leg sliding between his. She's a pliable, tiny thing in his arms, feels so light draped over him, her hip bones sharp where they dig into his side, her ribs protruding, her knee pointy. Sharp angles where there should be more padded curves and he resolves to ply her with more food, watch out for her better until she can stand more firmly on her own.

He runs his fingers down her spine, lingering in the valley of her lower back before he smoothes back up between her shoulder blades, fingertips curling at her neck, so grateful that she came, seeking solace in his arms.

She snuffles into his chest, seems to sink into him, her body getting sleep-heavy, and he imagines that he can feel the barely-there stroke of her lashes brushing his skin when her eyes close. He buries his nose in her hair, allows himself for one long moment to feast on the familiar scent that lingers in the curly tumble, warm vanilla and almond, comforting and enticing both. The coil of want is pulled taut in his midsection, every part of him filled with devastating yearning that he can practically taste on his tongue.

And it's not even sexual. He just wants _her_. All of her.

"Sleep, Kate," he whispers into her hair, continuing to caress the length of her back. Tries to infuse her skin with the knowledge that she's safe, that she's cared for, that he's got her now, imagines how it's spreading through her blood until it's bone-deep, a certain thing.

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_Thank you all for your lovely comments, your well-wishes and enthusiasm! I treasure every word, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy this story. _


	3. Chapter 3

_For the kind-hearted woman who hugs me and forgives me even when I'm a whiny, grumpy mess._

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**_kairos_**

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He jogs up to the crime scene, the cardboard carrier with two venti coffee cups clasped between his freezing fingers. The flaps of his open coat billow behind him; he forgot to button it up in his haste to get to the address she'd texted. To see her. An icy gust of wind bursts through the alley, howling around the dumpsters, snaking beneath his coat, underneath the edges of his sweater. He shivers violently. Winter came early this season, the late November storms arctic, like crystallized ice seeping into every crevice.

But then Kate turns toward him, the sound of his hurried steps enough to alert her to his presence and he forgets all about the freezing cold. She smiles at him, lips stretching wide and the corners of her eyes crinkled with it, wider than he's seen her smile lately and it's all for him. It's soft, yet dazzling just the same, the hazy grey light setting off the green brilliance in her eyes and his stomach flutters, like a million butterflies taking off for flight.

So this is what he does for her. His heart stumbles with it. This is what he can do for her.

His knees feel unsteady and he slows down, from a jog to a walk; like a normal person, he censors himself, less eager puppy but he feels alive with it, like he's cracked open an unbreakable shell and revealed the most luminous, most perfect pearl.

Every step carries him closer and yet she doesn't turn back to the crime scene. She waits for him instead, watching him with that gentle smile. He picks up her coffee from the cardboard carrier when he reaches her, holds out his offering.

_Good morning, my love._

"Hey," he says instead, his voice raw with it. He soaks her in, the way the cold has stained her cheeks rosy and how the wind has tousled her curls, strands of it framing her face that he wants to touch, wants to slide behind her ears and let his fingertips linger against the velvety patch of skin just beneath her ear. Notes also how the dark smudges underneath her eyes have finally lessened, her face fresher with it, brighter.

How long had she not been able to sleep until she came to him, sought out the comfort of his arms?

"Hey." She doesn't reach for her coffee though; instead she takes another step forward, moves into him, shielding him from the view of the officers milling around the crime scene. Her gloved hands come up, hesitant at first as she reaches for his lapels, tugging his coat closed around him before she slips the top button through its buttonhole.

He thinks he stops breathing as her fingers seem to linger against his body before they trail lower, finding the next button and closing it. She buttons the third, then the last and he wishes his coat had more buttons, hundreds of tiny ones so that she'd never stop touching him but her hands slide back up, palms pressed to his chest for a drawn-out moment.

"Better?" She murmurs but it's not really a question. Her eyes meet his, at once stark and fathomless and suddenly it's about more than the coat, more than this moment.

"Yeah," he croaks, his heart in his throat. He wants to wrap his arms tightly around her, wants to tug her into his chest and fold himself around her, wants her to feel how much better it is, how it'll keep getting better if only they keep doing this but he has no free hands and they're in public so he just stares into the mysterious depths of her eyes and offers what he can.

"Better."

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He sneaks the small envelope onto her desk when she isn't looking, engrossed in a search on her desktop, her body leaned forward and her nose almost touching the screen. He leaves it just where his hand usually rests, where he sometimes drums his fingertips against the tabletop in thought until she slaps her hand over his, glaring at him to knock it off.

Then Castle gets up, his offering unattended while he wanders over to the break room. He busies himself with making cappuccinos, one for her and one for himself, foaming the milk to perfection, taking much longer than usual.

When he eventually walks back over toward her desk, setting one of the coffees in front of her, the little envelope has disappeared.

She's steadfastly staring at her paperwork, that cute little frown edged onto the bridge of her nose, her pen moving precisely as she fills in the blank lines but when he lays his palm on her desk, right where the envelope had been, for one fleeting, barely-there glance her fingers brush the tips of his.

He leans back in his chair, hiding his satisfied grin behind the rim of his mug. They delve into the case, bounce theories back and forth but there's a lightness to his heart, a quickness to his steps and a perpetual smile curling his lips that nothing can erase for the rest of the day.

Because now, she has his key.

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_Thank you for your sweet messages and your continued enthusiasm for this story. :)_


	4. Chapter 4

_For the sweet woman to whom I can't wait to come home to every day. _

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**_kairos_**

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He can't sleep.

He's exhausted, has written for hours after he came home from the precinct, jittery with scenes unfolding in front of his inner eye. Fidgety until he felt the smooth, comforting familiarity of his keyboard beneath his fingertips, sank back into his desk chair and let his fingers fly with the clash, sprint, burn, tumble of the words racing through his mind.

It purges him, usually. Leaves him drained, thoughts finally quiet after the images are poured out onto the page but not so tonight.

He's restless, his legs twitching as he tries to get comfortable. Too hot underneath the comforter but too cold without it. He flops onto his back, stares at the ceiling, watching the silhouettes painted onto the white surface, the shadow puppets penciled and smudged by the cavalcade of New York colors and lights, hazy tonight as they sneak their path through the wintry-wet fog.

He stretches his arms out high above his head, then flaps them down to the side, up and down, making snow angels on the white expanse of his sheets.

The bed is too wide, too empty.

He's waiting for her.

He's tried to deny it, to ignore it. Tried to tell himself that he shouldn't, that there's no guarantee that she'll come by, tonight or any other night, but it's no use. His need for her grows by that upon which it feeds and now that he's had her in his bed, held her in his arms, _twice_, there's no going back. He wants her close, all the time, feels lonely and forlorn without her, yearns for her in that stark, forever kind of way.

He reaches for his phone, unlocks the screen, staring at his messages. He locks the phone, throws it on the pillow beside him, then turns his back to it, squeezing his eyes closed as if that can force him to just finally fall asleep. But his pulse keeps racing, his senses heightened to every sound and sensation, a creak in a floorboard and the hum coming from the heating vents, the muted whirr of the city traffic that seems too loud for his ears and at last he turns over again, grabs his phone, and opens the message app.

_Are you awake?_ His thumb smudges onto the 'delete' key and holds.

_Come over. _Delete.

_I miss you._

Fingers clamped around his phone, he freezes, stares at the message for a long time until the letters blur and run together in front of his eyes. They just don't do this. He wishes he could just say it but words aren't a part of this intrinsic dance they've perfected over the past few years. It's an odd kind of situation, he thinks, a writer unable to use his words but nobody has ever made him feel as tongue-tied as Kate.

He lets out a deep breath and then he locks his phone; slowly, decisively puts it back on the nightstand.

Rolling onto his side, Castle grabs for the pillow that he now thinks of as hers and snuggles it beneath his chin, folding his arms tightly around it. He thinks he can still smell her scent even though the sheets have since been washed. He buries his nose in the fabric and wishes it was her.

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"Castle. Castle."

Her voice, oh so mellifluous. Whispers in the dark, like fall leaves that rustle in the breeze. Warm like sunshine on his back. Thick and sweet, like honey licked from the edges of the spoon.

He's drifting, neither here nor there, trawling through the depths of sleep, can't seem to find the edges of reality.

Not that he cares. This is so much better. He reaches for her, his hand fumbling through the darkness toward the sound of her voice and then she's really there; warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips, the slender circumference of her wrist that fits so neatly within the cradle of his hand.

"Kate," he sighs, drawn-out vowels melting into the darkness as he hauls her against him, chest to chest, arms cradling her back and a leg draped over her hip, enfolding her in a snug embrace. And she lets him, burrows her face into his sternum, her breasts flattened against him.

He can't see, it's pitch-black or maybe his eyes are still closed? But he can feel - the warmth of her skin through her shirt, the soft sigh that falls from her lips. The way her ribcage expands with it, then sinks within the circle of his arms wrapped around her; every small nuance of her presence stark and real and encompassing.

"Sleep, Castle," she whispers, her breath seeping through his shirt, like wide, damp brushstrokes painted to his skin, her mouth so enticingly close that he thinks he can almost feel her lips touching him despite the fabric that separates them.

"Stay," he mumbles, not sure if he said it out loud, too drowsy, too content, a bone-deep sensation that drags him under, his body heavy, so heavy as it sinks into the mattress. He tightens his limbs around her, arms and legs, the thinness of her folded against his chest, close and safe.

Her palm cradles his ribcage, fingers splayed against his bones, and "I missed you too," she sighs, so quiet it's barely there, or maybe he just imagines the words, the thickness of sleep clutching at him.

His chin resting on top of her head, he breathes her in, inhales the indescribable comfort of Kate in his arms.

"You smell like snowflakes."

And then he's out.

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_Thank you for reading and the lovely words and comments you've been sharing about this story._


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: T - Waking up to you every morning is the most treasured gift. _

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**_kairos_**

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He wakes like he's bobbing in a slow current, buoyed into the light, out, back in. Huddled in thick warmth beneath the blanket, he feels heavy, arms and legs limp, the remnants of sleep still lacing his bones, muscles, and ligaments. He stretches languidly, his limbs measuring the length of the bed as he tightens from fingertips to toes, his abdomen taut, head tilted back, two vertebrae popping in his neck.

The day's brightness seeps through his closed eyelids and he gradually blinks open his eyes, prepares for the piercing glare. Hazy brilliance fills his bedroom, and when he turns to look through the window he notices the puffy white heaps that have collected on the sill outside, little cottony mountains that line the glass.

Wow. It actually snowed overnight.

Snowflakes.

His head swivels abruptly, away from the window and to his left - and there's Kate, spread out across the other side of his bed. Kate, with her arms flung up around her head, her face half-smudged into the pillow, her hair a riot of wild chocolate-and-caramel curls that cascade over the edges of the creamy-white pillowcase. Kate, still fast asleep, despite the morning that has long since cracked across the horizon in a spill of luminous grey-white and blurred, pale pinks.

He rolls onto his side, toward her, elbow digging into the mattress as he rests his head in the cradle of his hand, his heart leaping in his throat.

She's so achingly beautiful.

He's never _not_ known this, of course. Has never not been aware of her haunting beauty, from the moment she first flashed her badge at him, attitude as prickly as her hair. The exquisite, timeless eminence of her features, the devastating power of her smiles that buckle his knees and take his breath away. Her perfect profile when she analyzes the murder board, the exotic slant to her cheek bones and that sensual bottom lip; the adorable frown edged between her eyebrows when she's deep in thought, when the facts just won't add up. But the true depth of her beauty lies in her fierce strength, that vibrancy that seems to brim just beneath her skin. The well of compassion and her innate kindness that informs her every choice. Her bright intelligence, that spark that lights up her eyes when they untangle a story, when they spar with verbs and nouns, wield adjectives like swords; when she teases him, challenges him.

But this. This is brand-new. He gets to watch her all the time, in action and in thought, but never like this, quiet and motionless, caught in the suspended vulnerability of sleep. It's a gift, a treasure almost too valuable to comprehend and he lets his eyes roam, drinks in every detail, sipping at the font of her beauty.

Her closed eyelids are pale and naked, reminding him of delicate porcelain and he wants to put his lips to each, paint the fragile skin with tender kisses. Her lashes draw shadows to the rise of her cheekbones, fan darkly where her skin is tinged pink with sleep. He's enamored by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest with every breath she takes and the hint of cleavage that peeks from beneath the v-neck of her nightshirt. He thinks of the scar that lies nestled there, hidden between her breasts, and his heart stutters, a fragile pulse against his ribs as he flashes back to the indelible moment when she closed her eyes, a dead weight in his arms against a backdrop at too-bright green. To the vulnerable woman propped up by the hospital bed, pale, drawn face and hollow eyes; the brittle woman crouched on the sidewalk, eyes wide with fear at the devastating echo of sniper shots.

She looks so peaceful now, her features relaxed and her limbs flung wide, claiming her space in his bed. Serene in a way he'd always hoped she would find, the weight of the world eased off her shoulders. It calms his heart, the memories dissipating as warmth curls through his blood, sweet and viscous. He yearns for her, feels like he could weep with it, the ache that consumes every part of him. Before he thinks it through, before he thinks better of it he's lifted his hand, thumb stroking at the warm pulse of her temple. He drifts his fingers down the side of her face, marvels at the silk of her skin as he swipes a thick curl off her cheek, combing it back into the mass of hair that haloes her head.

Lingering at the side of her neck, he feels the beat of her heart against the whorls of his fingertips, savors the warmth there, the life-affirming pulse through her vein even as he tells himself he should let her be, make sure not to wake her but then her nose scrunches, a cute little mewl humming in her throat. Before he can pull his hand away she's turning for him, sluggish and unaware as she nudges her cheek more firmly into his palm.

His heart, his fragile, breakable heart skips a beat, then starts thundering, hurtling itself against his ribcage. He cradles her face, fingers bracketing her ear, thumb caressing her cheekbone when her lashes tremble, when she slowly, assuredly opens her eyes.

The grey gleam of daylight floods her pupils, sets off the brilliance of her eyes, light and translucent like sun-kissed amber and he thinks he's quite possibly never seen anything more beautiful than Kate Beckett first thing in the morning, waking up, sleepy-faced and warm and hazy.

He can't seem to stop touching her, curling his fingers behind her ears where her skin is thin and tender. Kate doesn't speak, just smiles gently up at him, a little shy, a little wondrous and he's tongue-tied by it. Overwhelmed with sleepy-morning-Beckett, he says the first innate thing that pops into his head.

"You have cute ears."

Her smile widens, all teeth and raised eyebrows as if to say, _'really, Castle?'_ but when he strokes his index finger along the ridge of her ear she giggles, actually giggles. Hunches her shoulder up to her ear and hides her face in the pillow.

He bites at the grin that steals across his face, files the information away, hopefully for future reference - Kate Beckett is ticklish at the shell of her ear. He fits his palm to her jaw, watches her eyes close for a moment before she opens them again, looking at him.

"You stayed," he murmurs, hears the wonder in his own voice. She blinks, her laughter melting into a soft smile, the curve of her lips mellow and honeyed. Her fingers tentatively skate across the sheet, bridge the distance between them until she trails them up his sternum, lingers right above his frantic heart.

"You asked me to."

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_Thank you for reading and your lovely comments. I treasure them all. _


	6. Chapter 6

_Happy Birthday, my Love! Wishing you a lovely day and a wonderful year ahead! May we fill it with laughter and joy (and joyness ;))... and love. :)_

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_**kairos**_

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She stays for breakfast.

He gave her one of his sweatshirts to ward off the morning chill and she's drowning in it, the faded blue material falling past her hips, only her fingertips peeking out from beneath the sleeves. She slides onto a bar stool, her hair pulled back in a messy bun with wispy curls framing her face. She looks so young, like a college co-ed and he feels old all of a sudden, weary. Can he be enough for this woman, save her from her demons? He's never fought this hard for anybody, never before wondered if he's strong enough, good enough. She makes him want to be better, be the best version of himself.

But then he hands her a mug of steaming coffee and she smiles at him like he hung the moon, wide and bright and breathtaking, and every doubt and concern pops like soap bubbles in the air, disintegrates into nothingness, as if they never existed. He has to lock his knees so he won't stagger, clutches the edge of the counter to stop himself from reaching across, cupping her head, tugging her close to taste that smile on her lips.

He hears his daughter's socked steps before he sees her, padding down the stairs and around to the kitchen.

"Detective Beckett," Alexis states, her voice sharpened by disbelief as she does a double take, stands frozen in the middle of the floor.

He eyes his daughter, watches Kate from the corner of his eyes as well. A blush creeps onto her cheeks and she smiles shyly as she lifts her arm, wiggles her fingertips in greeting.

"Hey, Alexis." Her voice is still sleep-laced but it's wary too, and his stomach churns, the awkwardness a thick weight in the air. But the best defense, he thinks, is a good offense – not that he has anything to defend to his daughter – but if he treats it like the most normal thing in the world, for Kate to be in his kitchen for breakfast, then maybe it will be. Like he wants it to be, _needs_ it to be.

"Morning, Alexis. Go sit." He gestures toward the counter. "Breakfast is almost ready."

Alexis shrugs almost imperceptibly but walks into the room, hops on the bar stool next to Beckett. He fills another mug, hands the coffee to his daughter, then runs his warmed fingers over her head for a moment, ruffling through her smooth hair. She smiles up at him from under her eyelashes, a tentative, careful thing and suddenly he sees his baby again in the half-grown woman sitting before him, the willowy five-year old with the serious eyes, practically abandoned by her mother, left insecure and with a fragile heart.

He understands the weariness, the fear he sees swirling in his child's eyes. Sometimes he's swamped with guilt, aware how he's ripped apart her safe, protected world, unveiled the dark underbelly of humankind to her too-ingenuous eyes. Suddenly she had to fear for his life, more than once, worry about him every day. Had to witness Kate getting shot, and her own father jumping in the bullet's deadly path. But he doesn't know what else to do; he can't not be there. He needs to be at Kate's side, needs to be there for her, and for the victims. For the first time in his life he feels like he has a purpose, like he's doing something good, something important and worthwhile. It's both selfish and not, and he can't give it up. He hopes that one day, his daughter will understand that, will see that it is worth the risk.

Alexis sips at her coffee, hiding in the mug, and he leaves her be for now. He winks at Kate as he turns back to the stove, catches the delicate tilt of her lips and the way her fingers nervously play with the handle of her cup. He busies himself with finishing breakfast, flips the hash browns that are frying in the pan, scrambles eggs, reaches for plates. The faster he finishes, the sooner he can intercept, be their intermediary. Distract them, make them laugh and talk, be his goofy self to make sure they are comfortable. If nothing else, he knows he's good at that.

He's half-turned, a plate piled high with food gripped between his fingers when he notices, just a slight movement at the corner of his eyes as Kate's hand bridges the distance, coming to rest on Alexis' arm. He freezes, waits quietly, observes, his heart pounding, lungs squeezed in his chest.

"Kate," she says, her voice strong and certain now, holding his daughter's gaze as Alexis lifts her eyes to her. "You can call me Kate. If you'd like."

There's a moment of absolute stillness, seconds ticking by that feel like hours where they look at each other, eyes holding; a battle of wills, of doubts, of hopes. And then Alexis nods and he deflates, every muscle relaxing and a breath bursting from his lungs that he wasn't aware he had been holding in.

"Kate," his daughter acknowledges and Kate squeezes her arm before she pulls away, cradling her fingers around her mug once more.

"Would you like some creamer?" Alexis reaches for the bottle of coffee creamer, pushes it toward Kate. "It's my favorite. Italian Sweet Cream. You should try it."

Kate accepts the bottle, her smile widening, teeth grazing at her bottom lip for a moment.

"Thank you. I'd love to."

And then the two women he loves most in the world pour creamer, share a spoon to stir, sip their coffees side by side and he feels buoyant, a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying lifted off his shoulders.

A peace treaty signed in coffee, swirling warm and thick and sweet.

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_._

_Thanks so much for all your wonderful comments; they always put a smile on my face. :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_To the fun, (sometimes weird), funny girl with whom I want to have all my adventures. :)_

* * *

_**kairos**_

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The girl is so young. _Was_. Skirt and wool tights shredded and one leg at an awkward angle, she lies sprawled in the snow, eyes wide and staring unseeingly. Dark red splinters from the stab wound in her stomach, frozen thistles of coagulated blood, her red hair fanning out against the endless expanse of white and he runs, runs, reaches a row of bushes just in time.

He retches into the shrubbery, hunched over as his stomach contents pattern the innocent snow with ugly splotches, a horrid art piece on the foulness of mankind. He heaves, over and over, head spinning and his legs shaky, his skin breaking out in cold sweat.

He notices her shoes first as they step into his field of vision, and then Kate's fingers slide beneath the collar of his coat, run circles across the skin at his nape, curl into his short hair. Her touch is cool, fingertips chilled by the icy gusts of wind and she must've taken her gloves off, he thinks inanely, despite the freezing temperatures.

He tries to breathe through it, in and out while she hums soothing sounds, caresses his neck until the dry-heaving slowly subsides, leaving him empty and drained.

Kate hands him a tissue and he wipes his teary eyes, his mouth, then balls it up and buries it deep in his coat pocket. Next she holds out a piece of gum and he takes that too, pushes it in his mouth, chewing valiantly. The peppermint soothes his raw throat and slowly he rights himself, back straightening against her hand that lies between his shoulder blades.

Her other palm curled around his elbow she guides him a few feet away, out of sight from the crime scene crew. His knees are wobbly and as one they sink to the ground, backs leaning against a wide tree trunk and legs stretched out in front of them. The snow is melting beneath his butt, the freezing water seeping into the seats of his pants but he doesn't care because she's leaning against him, shoulders brushing and her hips pressed firmly into his.

Castle rests his head back against the tree, stares into the distance of the sprawling park. He's embarrassed, wants to say he's sorry but really, what is there to say? There are no words. No logic to such heinousness.

The snow is falling thinly yet steadily, tiny crystals dancing, floating, sparkling in the day's glare, settling on their pants and coats before they disappear as if they never were. It's too beautiful and his heart hurts.

Kate lays her hand on his thigh, rubbing the length of his pant leg. "You wanna head home?"

"No." He shakes his head, the bark of the tree trunk abrading the skin of his head. He wants to get whoever did this, feels like he owes it to this girl, to his own daughter too.

Her fingers feel like ice cubes even through the fabric of his jeans. He reaches for her, enfolds Kate's hand between both of his, kneading her fingers and lifting them to his mouth, blowing warmth to her skin.

The gasp is almost inaudible but he's hyper-aware of it, the staggered breath in her throat and the 'o' of her lips, her eyes wide and entranced when he turns his head, looks at her. Her nose is red from the cold, and snowflakes flitter around her, landing on her cheeks, her eyelashes, her hair.

"Come home with me. Tonight."

* * *

In the end, it's almost pathetically easy. Case closed by dinnertime, open-and-shut, pictures and notes and evidence folded in a nondescript cardboard box, lined up with the many before it in a dark, dusty room. A case of young love gone horribly wrong, and a snot-nosed young man with stringy long hair led away in cuffs, weeping about how sorry he was.

Kate finds a parking spot about two blocks away, and silently they walk toward his building, side by side. The grit strewn on the sidewalk to counteract black ice crunches beneath the soles of their shoes, provides the only soundtrack to their synched steps.

He breathes in the thick mist that clings to the night air, lets the fog infuse his lungs, so icy it's almost painful. He relishes the wet droplets of snow as they land on his face, and the reassuring rhythm of Kate's steps by his side, Kate's breathing, Kate's warm, familiar scent that mingles with the taste of snow.

Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Theirs was a silent agreement, a gift too wondrous to be asked for but he's not sorry, can't be sorry. Drowning in sorrow he'd needed her, couldn't fathom sleeping by himself, sleeping without her again and so it spilled out of him, needy and pathetic.

He thinks he might never forget the way she stared at him for a long moment, how he felt exposed, torn open; felt like she was looking right into him, reading everything written on his soul, every whim and need and deep-dark desire. Yet he felt secure in it, finding understanding in her eyes; his secrets safe with her.

He can still feel the phantom of her touch on his skin when she curved a hand over his ear, thumb stroking at the side of his face. How heat rose into his skin despite the arctic breeze that whipped around them.

How his heart skipped and skedaddled when she'd nodded, breathed "okay" in univocal promise.

Their knuckles brush, startling him out of his reverie. He thinks it's inadvertent but with their next step, they brush again, and at the next after that, her fingertips nudge between his. He glances at her from the side and she turns for him, her eyes deep and enchanting, etched wood and mossy green, a forest he loses himself in. With his stomach in flutters he opens his hand. Kate slides her palm against his, glove to glove pressed together and he can feel her warmth seep through the fabric and into the lines of his palm. He folds his hand closed around hers, squeezes her fingers and she smiles at him, shy and fluttery as her lips stretch, her lashes tremble.

He tugs and she comes, tangled against his side. They walk to his home - their hands knotted, tight and strong.

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_Thank you for your continued enthusiasm for and joy in this story. _


	8. Chapter 8

_For the warm, soft, so very loving woman to whom I can't wait to curl around and snuggle up with every night. :) _

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**_kairos_**

* * *

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It feels awkward and he doesn't know why.

It wasn't before but now they carefully stalk around each other, as if they don't quite know where to look, how to be.

He supposes it's different, preparing for bed together instead of the relative safety of sneaking in when the lights are already off. Knowing that they'll crawl into bed together, expectations almost palpable between them, of bodies pressed together, legs entwined and fingers splayed at ribs. When they're not dating, when they haven't even addressed the idea of dating. Theirs is a careful dance, a practiced, tentative ballet and he just flung his leg too far, set them to pirouette. He only hopes they won't spin too much, too far, too soon.

He hands her a pair of Alexis' leggings and one of his t-shirts, gets a kick out of it when she raises her eyebrows and grins at the 'Women of Star Trek' print on its front. He shrugs. What can he say, he's always admired head-strong, kick-ass women. Their fingers carefully don't brush as she accepts the clothing.

He uses the bathroom first, takes a quick, steaming shower. He feels like he needs it, needs to let the hot water sluice off the grime and ugliness of the day. After he's finished, hair towel-dried and mouth minty-fresh, he sets out towels for her, washcloths and a new toothbrush, the sample of make-up remover he's appropriated from his daughter's bathroom.

When he leaves the bathroom she's sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, already dressed in the clothes he gave her and her naked feet tucked under her legs. He waves his fingers at her, grins awkwardly, just standing there like an imbecile as she untangles her endlessly long legs, swings them down to the floor. She slides past him, closes the door behind her with a decisive click.

He lets go of the breath he was holding, scrubs a hand down his face. The sound of the toilet flushing actually makes him blush; he feels like he's intruding on her privacy so he walks toward his side of the bed, away from the closed door and the alluring woman on the other side of it.

Folding down bedding, arranging pillows and sheets, he busies his hands, fidgets until there's nothing left to arrange or fold. He slides between the sheets, sitting up against the headboard, his head tilted back. His eyelids fall closed of their own volition, heavy with the weight of the day.

The steady sound of running water lulls him, reminds him of waterfalls or the ocean brushing up against the shore. He dreams of tropical forests and the beach, of endless white sand and the sun hot on his chest, of Kate curled to his side, sun-kissed skin and relaxed limbs, body soft and her lips teasing the ball of his shoulder.

The door opening startles him and his eyes fly open. He finds her silhouetted in the doorframe, backlit, almost haloed by the fluorescent light above the mirror.

Then she flips off the light and she's bathed in shadows, sharp cheekbones and fathomless eyes and he can barely breathe, the blood rushing in his ears. There's awareness between them, a sizzle in the air, like electricity zipping along invisible wires strung between them, binding them together.

Her fingers fiddle with the hem of his t-shirt where it brushes her legs mid-thigh, her teeth abusing her bottom lip as she watches him, quiet and pensive. Heat rises through him; he feels his heart pounding all the way into his fingertips. It's a whole-body feeling, the way he just needs her, here and close and forever.

The words tumble forth, an unstoppable force. "Come here," he asks. Pleads, demands, begs, his voice raw with it, a hand stretched out in supplication, palm open to receive the slide of hers against his.

And then she does come, long legs ambling forward and he can't stop staring at her, at the lithe lines of her body, the elegant grace of her movements, the mystery of her eyes. It only takes three steps and suddenly it's the most natural thing in the world, for her to slide beneath the comforter, her hand folding into his. For him to follow the descent of her body as she sinks into the mattress, tugs him with her, surrounds him with her embrace. For him to curl against her, bodies pressed snugly together, his forehead nudged into the arc of her neck and his cheek smudged to her chest. For her to mold around him like it's the only place she wants to be, legs tangled with his and fingers entwined.

He realizes he's forgotten about the comfort of holding another person, and of being held, protected and treasured this way - or maybe he's just never had it before, not like this. How soothing, how indescribably good it feels, the closeness and intimacy of it unequaled. There's nothing like it.

No one like Kate.

He clings to her, can't help it, an arm wrapped around her torso and his hand bracketing her ribcage as he holds her closer, tighter, as tight as possible. Her fingers smooth into his hair, fingertips curling against his scalp. She ruffles through the strands, her nails softly scratching his skin, drawing soothing circles and patterns that he wants to decipher but can't. Her other arm brackets his back, a leg hooked high over his hips that clamps around him like a vice when she gives it back, holds him just as tightly.

He's warm and heavy and suddenly he feels the full force of his fatigue, exhaustion dragging him under, weighing on his eyelids. A sense of peace envelops him, a hushed comfort he's only ever felt with her, soothing the ragged edges of his mind. He soaks her in, a deep sigh deflating his lungs that he feels echoed in the drape of her body beneath his as he sinks, fades inexorably, his eyes falling closed.

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_Your encouragement and kind words always leave me smiling. Thank you. _


	9. Chapter 9

_To the smart, interesting and funny woman who can make me think, make me marvel, make me smile. :)_

* * *

**_kairos_**

* * *

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He doesn't know what woke him, at first.

His eyes fly open and he blinks a few times, adjusting to the darkness as his heart leaps frantically. The night is silent, the city's sounds muffled by layers of snow; the room splotched with pale blue moonlight that glints off the crystallized white surfaces, sneaks through the blinds, glares off of corners and walls.

And then he hears it and knows why he woke, what jerked him into consciousness. A sound so sad that he aches all over. A pitiful whimper, an almost sob.

He turns for her, seeking her, and his bed never seemed as wide before as when he's searching for her in the semi-dark. They must've shifted over night because Kate lies sprawled on her back, hands flung up beside her head, balled into tight fists. Her face is scrunched up, none of the peacefulness lining her features that he had witnessed during the nights before. Instead her brows are furrowed and her eyes pinched closed, the sides of her mouth drawn into a sad crescent moon. The sight makes him want to draw her back into his arms, spoon himself around her, hold her safe and tight.

He rolls in closer, as close as he can but careful not to touch her – afraid he'd startle her, scare her even more while she's held captive in the throes of a nightmare. She whimpers again, her lips quivering, and a lone tear leaks from the corner of her eyes, forging its path down her cheek.

She's crying. In her sleep.

His heart breaks; it's almost as if he can feel the cracks and fissures through its walls, the pain unfurling through him like tentacles that rip him open, puncture his flesh, strangle him of air. He's aching for her, hurting with her; he wants to help her, protect her from her demons, be her knight in shining armor and yet he doesn't know what to do, feels so helpless in the face of everything she's going through.

Her head starts thrashing on the pillow, a garbled cry reverberating in her throat and a leg kicking at the covers and he stops thinking altogether, he just reaches for her. Tentatively, he lays his palm to her head, almost no pressure behind his touch as his skin meets her skin, her forehead warm and sweaty.

She stops thrashing and he holds his breath, the beat of his heart loud in his ears, heavy in his throat. He curls his fingers against her temple, caresses the vulnerable spot. Another whimper but it's quieter, just pitifully sad as she roots for the warmth of his touch.

He scoots closer, made brave by his slight success. His hand heavier on her forehead and the other cradled to her shoulder, he hovers his mouth by her ear, the tip of his nose brushing the shell.

"Shhh, it's okay," he whispers, his voice no more than a hum that trembles in the dark. At first he's not sure if he imagines it but then it's undeniable - her fingers loosening incrementally from the piercing grip into her palms. Her features relaxing, softening the frown etched between her brows and the pinch of her mouth. Her whole body sinking, melting heavily into the mattress.

He murmurs inane reassurances, sweet nothings, cradling her with the warmth of his presence; makes promises he maybe shouldn't make but that he needs her to believe anyway because it's all he's got.

"You're okay. You're safe. I've got you, Kate. I've got you now."

* * *

Next time he wakes, it's to the tickle of weak-yellow beams of sunlight crawling along the hardwood, over the comforter and into his nose, and the lissome weight of Kate draped onto his chest, her chin pressed to his sternum as she looks at him, wide-eyed and solemn.

He's stunned, for a long second, keeps blinking at the flecks of warmth dusted across his bedroom after days and days of being greeted by endless November grey before awareness catches up to him that he's waking up to Kate, and any sunlight pales in comparison to the honey-combed warmth in her eyes.

"Hey." She smiles softly when their eyes meet, her hair a wild riot framing her face, cheeks still creased with sleep and her voice morning-rough. It zigzags through him like electricity, sharp and fervent, arrowing into every part of him, rising through his skin.

He wonders if he would ever get used to this. He can't imagine that this would ever get old, that he wouldn't just always be captivated by the allure of waking up with her like this, warm and limber and somnolent.

He reaches for her, fingers curling into the tangled mass of her hair. "How are you so beautiful first thing in the morning?"

She huffs a small laugh, her lashes lowering and a blush tinting her cheeks as she tries to hide her face against his chest. He cradles her jaw with his palm, tugs her back up, can't miss a single moment of her adorable, sleepy softness.

Kate blinks up at him, her mouth opening on a trembling breath. He holds her gaze, can't stop looking at her as he draws her closer. One of her legs slides between his thighs, her fingers splayed against the ripples of his ribcage. Her eyes widen, dark and luminous, her lips shimmering, like they were brushed with diamond dust and he feels robbed of all air, his heart racing in his chest.

"You okay?" He murmurs, painting her cheekbone with the brush of his thumb.

"Yeah." She must see it on his face because she grows more serious. "Why?"

"You had a nightmare."

"Oh." She looks away, stares out the window for a long moment. The sunlight brightens her eyes, makes her pupils seem almost translucent; pained. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"You get those a lot?" And it hurts, hurts him someplace deep inside, like a punch in the gut, the pain flaring out in concentric circles. To think of her sleeping alone on those nights, haunted by nightmares and terrors, without anybody to hold her close – without him to cradle her in his arms. He can still see it, doesn't think he'll ever forget the image of her face crumpled in pain, splashed with tears, the sight of her struggling and fighting, so frightened in her sleep. He wants to never let her leave; wishes he could simply demand of her to stay with him every night. To just… stay with him.

He wishes she would want that.

"On occasion." She shrugs, turning back for him and he knows she's downplaying the frequency of her bad dreams by the way her lashes lower and her teeth are snagging at her bottom lip. "This one wasn't too bad. It kind of just... faded."

"Good." He smiles, can't quite keep the relief out of his voice that he was actually able to help her. That maybe his presence drew her away, could counter whatever demons were haunting her, at least this once. He curves his hand to her waist, fingers trembling at the dip of her spine.

Kate drags herself higher against him, her body a svelte, warm line molding to the harder planes of his. She combs her fingers through his hair, trailing down his cheek while she regards him silently and he can almost see the thoughts racing through her brain as she seems to make up her mind about something. His heart thunders, his skin tingling with awareness, heat flashing through him.

"Thank you," she whispers, her thumb caressing his bottom lip. Her eyes flick down to his mouth, then back up to meet his eyes.

"For loving me so much."

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_Thank you for reading and your lovely responses that brighten my day. _


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